


All cleared up.

by Bentbonemarrow



Category: Koroshiya Ichi | Ichi the Killer
Genre: Explicit Language, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 10:19:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9380048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bentbonemarrow/pseuds/Bentbonemarrow
Summary: People tend to get the wrong idea, when one is as loyal as Kakihara Masao is to his boss - to the point of being called a pet, even deviant. Thank god the boss understands the real situation.





	

There is a meeting. 

Potential partner gang; they seem overconfident, nosey and frankly: pretty fucking green. Their boss -much too young for this shit. Also disrespectful towards the highest power of organized crime in Shinjuku, which says a lot about how it’ll be working with him, but what can you do to a fuck-up with a rich daddy? That’s economics. About now it's all coming to a wrap-up as the details are now or less hashed out.

Kakihara has actually begun to get bored of imagining him dying gruesomely at this point. Quite the feat to achieve, honestly.

He's been standing the whole meeting by Anjo's right hand, like some fucked kind of angel or a form of psychological manipulation(intimidation). Perhaps both. But he’s been standing and it’s been around two hours at the least and his legs are getting tired and he’s seriously fucking restless from moving so little and it makes him a bit grumpy. Just a bit.

The other gang's members all stand up, the posse bowing respectfully and waiting for their boss to make his way over to the exit.

Then, just as the group is to finally leave, their boss seems to change his mind and sits back down with a thud. His eyes meet Kakihara's as he does this, strange expression on his face; and there's a strange tension to the air suddenly. The man had eyed him a few times during the talk, the intrusive gaze mostly falling on the scars and piercings of his face, but this feels different. 

Something tenses in Kakihara's stomach, anticipatory. The man opens his mouth.

“Alright, this isn’t business, but I just have to know. There are these rumors,” his eyes then light up with strange glee, and he points a finger at Kakihara just to drive home who it is he’s talking to “You’re less your boss' attack dog and more his bitch, right Mr. Kakihara?”

Kakihara’s heart literally fucking stops, face freezing in this hollow kind of stare that doesn't say anything yet says way too much at the same time. Then the man actually goes on, the stupid fucking asshole. His voice suddenly seems so loud, taking on this incredibly annoying grating quality. Though maybe that’s just to Kakihara.

“I mean, it'd be easy to mistake you for and eccentric rather than a gay, but your depravity really gives it away... you know?” There's this small, satisfied grin on his face as he says these words. ‘Acknowledge me! My wit! I long for validation and my best attempt at gaining it is insulting people!’ it seems to say. The man’s full of shit.

As if pointing out some kind of deeply hidden secret only he had been clever enough to figure out. Kakihara sees red-red-red!, hands clenching into fists, face still that blank mask. He wants to snarl at the man to shut his fucking trap before he gets perforated, but his throat has closed up. Anjo is right. fucking. there. Forced to listen to this baseless fucking nonsense and Kakihara can't do shit about it, hell.

“I mean, not to be rude, but you two fuck, right?” He doesn’t seem to realise the paradox of his own words and that self satisfied aura wipes any sincerity from his attempt at not rustling feathers. He looks Kakihara up and down. ”Or does this pierced bastard just suck you off, Mr. Anjo? I could see that happening.”

The last question is directed right at the boss!- and he shouldn't have to listen to this at all and how dare that motherfucker even open his goddamn mouth!

Kakihara is practically going insane with rage, and he finally moves, the needle from a sleeve sliding into his waiting palm. He'll make it slow, painful. Make him  _ pay _ .

Anjo's hand stops him just as he's about to take a step forward. Just held up simply, so simply, but it roots Kakihara in his spot, seething inside like a kettle.

“Ishida,” Anjo's voice is low, smooth and calm, but the lack of a ‘mr.’ belies his displeasure “I get that your father did not teach you basic fucking respect… but if you say that kind of horse shit ever again, then not having a deal with our gang will be the least of your problems.” 

Ishida turns pale as a sheet in the blink of a fucking eye, mouth a stiff line.

“Do you understand?” Anjo finishes, voice stronger this time, the barest hint of a growl audible. He sits back, spine straight, posture sure and intimidating. Daring Ishida to repeat the faux pas. He's so good at this, so perfect.

“Yes, Mr.Anjo... of course,” the man returns with possibly the stiffest smile ever conceived by humankind, “ excuse my impudence.” He then scurries out of the room with his posse not unlike a dog with it's tail between it’s legs.

The door clicks and then it's quiet. Anjo and Kakihara don't have to leave as the meeting had been in the Anjou gang's apartment, but that leaves them positioned as before, with Anjo on the settee and Kakihara standing next to it.

A heavy silence settles in, wrapping up the only residents of the room. Kakihara’s still reeling from his earlier rage, the bloodlust fades much too slow. It's not that he's got shit against gays but he's honestly just pissed because the fuck had made the boss a part of it. Kakihara could take that kind of talk without a twitch if it was just him. But lies about his boss? His fucking boss? The only kind of authority Kakihara willingly subjected himself to? Heads would roll like the wheels of a bus go `round.

Anjo stands and Kakihara almost flinches, barely pulling back the reflex, feeling stiff as a cardboard cutout. The boss walks over to the windows as if without a care in the world. But he's not saying anything and that feels... off somehow. And Kakihara can't help fiddling his hands as he is inclined to do when anxious, and he's still got the fucking needle in his palm, what the fuck?- this is messed up.

Was the boss pissed?

That would explain why he isn't talking; Anjo loved to talk after meetings- but mad about what? Kakihara not defending himself (or by extension - the boss - ) against Ishida's claims? Or being involved in these claims? Kakihara doesn't actually know how the boss feels about gay people, it'd never come up. He just hopes the attitude isn't too bad, because that'd sour their relationship after such a fiasco.

As much as getting abused-hurt-beat-degraded-punished by Anjo makes him feel alive and thrilled, he'd rather not be over this. It'd be wrong. It feels like a taint has formed on their interactions already, and despite everything Kakihara can not afford such a thing. He’s too dependant on the boss.

He needs his boss.(But he’s not gay, oh no, not that.)

“You’re still pissed.”

Kakihara jolts so hard he almost loses balance. He turns his head only to meet Anjo’s gaze straight on but that doesn’t feel like something he can be doing right now, so he drops it back to his hands.

And would you look at that? The needle is firmly lodged between the fourth and fifth metacarpals of his right hand, the point peeking through on the other side; and when had he done that? It’s only barely registering, pain washed out by the turbulence of his mind.

“What’re you talking about, old man? I’m perfectly fine...” His voice tilts as if incredulous, a breathless chuckle attached at the end of his retort like a bad afterthought.

But from where the boss is standing Kakihara looks closer to a child that’s ashamed of being found out, attempting to play it off cool when it’s obvious just how hard he’s trying. At least to Anjo.  And the fact he won’t meet eyes is another giveaway. Neither the walls nor floor are as interesting as Kakihara’s making it seem right now.

“It bothers you.”

“What does?” (he says it too quick, too sharp, too obvious that he knows what the answer to the question is)

“That he called you gay.”

And he falters at that, jaw tensing visibly and hand shoving the needle further subconsciously as if it’d help. As if he’s really feeling it right now. But he’s not, there is no joy in the air coming off him. Kakihara takes a steadying breath, exhaling slowly.

“Not as much as you seem to think.” It sounds like he’s gritting his teeth.

“Are you sure?”

No answer. Kakihara’s head sags a bit, shoulders tense.

They’re not strictly business partners. It’s obvious when Anjo indulges the other with violence, slaps or punches over matters too petty to warrant it, when Kakihara takes bullets for Anjo when it’d be easier to shove him and himself behind cover. It’s obvious in how Kakihara listens to Anjo forging plans, the utter rapture in his features, the eerie stillness of his usually, well not jittery but rather- active body language and how Anjo trusts the other enough to let him run operations without monitoring him. Much. (Anjo is a hardass when it comes to procedure so that says quite a lot, actually.)

It’s not quite friendship either. That requires a different kind of emotional bonding. It requires knowing each other’s aspirations, dreams. They only understand the other’s ideologies. It’s this strange quasiplatonic thing, sharp on some edges but softer on others, never discussed for fear of damaging it.

Except this is happening, they’ve been forced to confront this and Kakihara is scared. Of overstepping some boundary, of losing his rightful place at Anjo’s side because of a fuck-up. And worse yet: he still doesn’t know how the boss even feels about this even though his own emotions are basically out there for all to see(or at least for Anjo to see. Al-fucking-ways for Anjo.)

“Come here, Kakihara.”

He doesn’t want to comply. 

And yet he trods over obediently and very quietly, shoes just barely sounding against the floor, face still downcast. Stops a few feet from Anjo.

“Look at me.”

The other grimaces in response. His curled left hand taps a few times against his upper thigh in a defeated and uneasy gesture. Hopeless, almost.

And Anjo knows this would be at least slightly awkward but he knew two things. One: there would be others like Ishida and some before him, who would spout shit again. Two: Kakihara would be just as bothered with it continually. So all in all, it was something better fixed as soon as possible rather than left to fester.

“That was an order.”

The other drags his eyes up hesitantly, uneasiness plain to see for anyone who knew where to look.

He isn’t actually looking Anjo in the eyes, but rather at the bridge of his nose. It makes a good illusion, though, all without the effort of staring back at that strong gaze. Kakihara can akmost handle this situation calmly and rationally.

Then, Anjo does something unexpected: he brings a hand up to cup Kakihara’s cheek, who rears back from the contact slightly, as if burned. Yet at Anjo’s slight warning hum he returns to his initial position. His expression is that of mild pain. 

(He wears it often in the other’s presence but it’s usually caused by physical pain, not emotional)

But he keeps as still as he can, as calm as he can despite the fact that the contact burns and he’s still pissed off for no reason and it’s quite awkward due to earlier events. Kakihara closes his eyes and attempts to take calm breaths to steady himself for what seems like the umpteenth time.

But Anjo’s fingers, they crawl over the side of Kakihara’s face and skim softly through the blond tresses beyond the hairline, fingernails grazing just so. And the fingers keep moving, soft yet firm and most of all: grounding. And then the palm tilts, and another hand mirrors the action on the other side of the blond head, and blunt fingertips press against Kakihara’s scalp - massaging. Anjo’s thumb circles slowly around the jut of bone just above where spine and skull meet.

The tension seems to slip from Kakihara ever so slightly. His previously knotted muscles slacken almost unwillingly, shoulders drooping slightly and the crease of his brow easing out. He takes a deep breath that tastes vaguely like cigar smoke and then sighs a long exhale.

“My mother would do this to my old man when he was all stressed out, way back when I was a dumb teeneager. It always seemed to help him.” ‘-so now I’m helping you’ going unspoken. Anjo’s voice isn’t soft but it is quiet and that’s the closest it gets. What a strange parallel to draw, Kakihara muses.

But following such a thought: if either of them were to be a stressed-out father, it should be Anjo, so why is he the one massaging someone else’s head? And what does that make Kakihara? He risks cracking an eye open just enough to catch sight of Anjo’s face. It’s stern, focused. And - holy balls!- he’s remembering his parents right now, how fucked is that? Massaging the head of a mobster and murderer that’s allegedly gay for him.

But it helps. Anjo might not be pissed at Kakihara after all, going by his actions and countenance (not that countenance can be counted on, most of the time). The thought is to his mind what water is to those who wander through the desert alone for weeks. Sweet salvation! Rejoice!

Except Kakihara’s not that happy a person so he settles for relief. He needs Anjo. Like he’s never needed anyone else before.

“You know, I couldn’t give a fuck about whether you you want my dick or not as long as you do your job, Kakihara.”

And there it is - the admission. Anjo doesn’t care.

It is relieving to hear such words. Kakihara can’t even bring himself to be irritated over the fact that Anjo doesn’t deny the possibility.

(Why should he, though? There’s nothing wrong, this way. Kakihara is the one who’s scared. He’s the one who’s worried over it. Anjo doesn’t care, doesn’t care, doesn’t care.)

Anjo let’s go of the other’s head, and in the grim lines of his face one might discern one raised corner of his lips, a smug half-smile.

Kakihara finds himself deflating like a pierced balloon, and he walks over to drop limply down into a chair, head hanging backwards over the backrest. His eyes are closed.

“Thank fuck, old man,” he lets out, voice still a bit higher than usual.

Anjo lets him sit back for a minute or three before checking his watch, after which he lets out a silent curse.

“Get the fuck up, Kakihara. We’ve got a dinner-date with the Yamamotos in fifteen,” he says a bit louder than necessary.

The other man obeys immediately and they exit the suite. Time for business as usual.

**Author's Note:**

> My god if someone actually ever reads this I'll be surprised. Oh man, that'd be wild. Haha.
> 
>  
> 
> ...  
> If ur seeing this - you're one in a mil, m8, pal. Hit me up with how the hell you ended up here, ok?  
> :`-D


End file.
